


beast to bait

by mxmushroom



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: BDSM, Beholding is actually pretty sexy, Blowjobs, Bondage, Brain Fog, Canon-Typical Asshole Elias Bouchard, Canon-Typical depressed Tim, Cisgender Elias Bouchard, Cisgender Tim Stoker, Confusion, Control, Degradation, Dom Elias Bouchard, Edging, Elias bossing Tim around, Elias planting sexy dreams in Tim's head, Extremely Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Use of Compulsion, Gaslighting (kind of), Hate Sex, Kink, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Memory Loss, Misuse of Beholding Avatar Powers (The Magnus Archives), Orgasm Denial, Praise, Season 3 Finale, Sex Dreams, Sub Tim Stoker, Teasing, Voyeurism, before the unknowing, gagging, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:27:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29636703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxmushroom/pseuds/mxmushroom
Summary: It’s the sort of dream that emerges from his subconscious fully-formed, without context.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Tim Stoker
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	beast to bait

When he remembers it later, he won’t be able to pinpoint the line between the dream and waking, the image, impossibly vivid and bright and _there_ of Elias touching him and stirring into reality to his own hand palming at the heat between his legs, sweat slicking his forehead, his sheets tangled around him like a vise. 

It’s the sort of dream that emerges from his subconscious fully-formed, without context. The stark, painfully detailed image begins with the tightness of rope around his wrists, up his arms, binding them together so he can’t move, can’t even squirm. As he tries, he feels the soft fibre across his chest, around his thighs, at the base of his cock. He tries to move. He wants to move, wants to leave, and his breathing gets faster, more desperate as he tries to escape. It’s this feeling, the building terror and panic that prompt dream-Tim to open his eyes, and what he sees makes his throat swell with a hot, bitter hatred that he’s about to hurl out in the form of long-imagined insults before he realizes he’s gagged, his mouth stretched around something (plastic, it feels like?) that keeps him from speaking. 

Elias looms over him. He’s like a high-definition version of himself. His skin is too white against the dark of his suit, the lines of him too sharp. He’s all Tim can see. Is the room dark? Maybe there is no room. Maybe there’s only the two of them. Elias traces a finger down Tim’s chin, over the side of his neck where his jugular pulses with the anxious pounding of his heart. He writhes. Elias laughs, and it’s louder than it should be. With dismay, Tim realizes he’s hard. Not in the half-focused, easy-to-ignore way of partly-formed erotic dreams that make him feel like a teenager, the ones that make him humiliated to meet Martin’s eye at the office the following morning. No, he’s _painfully_ aroused; he can feel himself throbbing, can feel the slow drip of pre-cum down his shaft. Despite himself, he wishes Elias would touch him. 

It’s only then that the other man speaks. “Good, Tim,” he says. 

Tim lets out a noise that is supposed to be a protest. Elias smirks. “Adorable.” 

There’s a hand on Tim’s chest. His eyes flutter; his whole body is sensitive, hot; the feeling of skin on skin is electric in the worst way. _Run_ , something inside him insists. _Get. Out_. 

_Stay_ , says something else. And since he doesn’t have a choice, he tries to let his body relax. He watches with helpless intrigue as Elias sheds his jacket, his tie, unbuttons his shirt. He stops struggling as Elias kneels between his legs, forced wide by the bonds and the shape of the chair he’s found himself in. 

“Isn’t this much better?” He can feel Elias’ breath over his head, knows that Elias’ mouth must be only a hair’s breadth from him, and he whines. “Doesn’t it feel better, Tim? To let go? To let me take control?” 

There’s a flash of wetness and heat over the head of Tim’s cock. His hips rut up, involuntarily. He feels his mind fogging. _Where am I? How did I…_ He forces his eyes open as Elias speaks again. 

“You know you’re helpless. You couldn’t save your brother. You can’t save them. Tim. You’re smart, aren’t you?” The taunting is punctuated by a hand around his base, teasing upwards; Tim feels the shift of his foreskin under Elias’ touch, the friction delicious and enticing and frightening and inescapable. He makes a sound. He tries to quiet it, but Elias delights in it and kisses the tip of his cock and Tim sighs again. He wishes Elias would ungag him. He wants to let him know exactly how he feels. 

With his eyes open, the dark room begins to take shape. It’s not anywhere he recognizes; the walls are rough-hewn stone, the floor dirt, or maybe just filthy. There’s an archaic-looking lantern somewhere on the floor, and the whole place feels wrong, almost static. Tim’s struck with the sudden horror that someone is watching this. Somebody knows. They see him, here, helpless under Elias’ thrall, unable to move, to stop this, even to protest. Fear overtakes him again, rises in his chest like a wave, and he fights the bonds around his wrists once more, letting them chafe at his skin. 

“I know you’re smart, Tim.” Elias seems unphased by his fear. Actually, Tim thinks bitterly, he seems to be _enjoying_ it. Enjoying this. The bulge between his legs is growing impossible to ignore through the thin fabric of his trousers. Elias takes the entirety of Tim into his mouth and a rush of pleasure clouds Tim’s thoughts once more. But it’s momentary, the relief. Elias pulls back, moves himself up to sit on Tim’s lap, his weight torturous against the insistent, pulsing need Tim can no longer ignore. He grinds, slightly, against Elias’ ass as the other man reaches behind his head to release him from the gag that fills his mouth.

“Since you’ve been such a good boy,” he whispers.

“Fuck you.” Tim says it as soon as he can speak. Elias smiles. 

“Don’t lie to me, Tim.” His voice drips with condescension and affection. Tim’s face grows hot. Elias knows him. He’s always known him. “You want this, don’t you?” 

“Don’t touch me.” Tim’s voice is breathy. _Touch me_ , he thinks. 

“Let me show you,” Elias murmurs. “How good this all can feel if you just stop resisting.” Something in his voice makes Tim tingle all over and he moans. Without his mouth stuffed full, it’s loud, and echoes around the close walls and low roof of wherever they are. Elias’ mouth is on his neck, bruising him, Elias is moving against him, the friction unbearable, Elias’ hands are in his hair, pulling at it, and the pain feels _good_ , feels _right_ , and Tim is frightened, more frightened, maybe, than he’s ever been, and he breathes out, “more. Please,” and the scene dissolves in static and blackness and pleasure and he wakes, breathing heavily, hot, damp, _hard_. Before he’s fully aware, he’s touching himself, chasing the feeling, trying to bring it back, as much as it feels him with nausea-inducing self-hatred.

He’ll also try not to wonder what prompted the dream. To forget sitting across from Elias’ imposing slab of a desk, the other man tenting his long, narrow fingers, the intense, searching penetration of his bright eyes and their large pupils. He felt ill. The same kind of sinking, churning feeling in his gut that you get in dreams where you’re stuck in an exam hall with your dick out, or when you parents caught you in some baldfaced, teenage lie. He tried to swallow it back, to maintain the hard, unflinching frown that he offered to both his managers nowadays, but Elias seemed unshaken. He’d spoken coolly, with an air of superiority that set Tim fantasizing about taking the chair he was sitting in and breaking it on the back of Elias’ neck. The thought was almost enough to make him smile. 

Elias had said something about attitude. Something about team spirit and the spinning, well-oiled cogs in the Institute’s machine. Tim had openly rolled his eyes at that point. 

“Please,” he’d said, almost spat. “You know that’s not what this is about. And frankly? I’d much rather you kill me now and get it the fuck over with.” 

Elias had smiled. “Tim,” he’d said. “Why don’t you have a sweet.” He’d slid the crystal bowl across the oak desk and Tim had sat, unmoving, staring him down. His smile was all teeth. 

Tim had found it charming once. Elias had the build and the air of one of the older men he might’ve met up with from Grindr five or ten years ago, before he’d gotten sick of their patronizing tones and the way they wanted him to act like a naive, blushing virgin. He was thin, his shoulders firm. He wore his dark hair just too long for the mousse that held it back, off his forehead. When he’d first been hired, Tim had entertained the boss fantasy, thought of Elias fucking him over the desk or in the stacks of the archive, taking control, praising him. Now the thought made him want to hit something. Still, something about Elias’ face--his sharp cheekbones, maybe, or the just-present lines at the corners of those green eyes--drew him in. He couldn’t look away. 

His cock had twitched then, and he got the sickening feeling that Elias knew. He stood, without asking permission, and left the office without looking behind him. 

That had been yesterday morning. He finds himself reliving it, unwillingly, as he absentmindedly strokes at his stiffening cock, entertaining the ache that builds there, the wetness leaking from it. He tries not to think of Elias. Tries to conjure up memories of that tall, submissive cop he’d fucked for access to old files, or the slender, red-haired coffee-shop cashier he’d taken home just two weeks ago and made breakfast for. The thoughts slide away from him like water, and his mind is all Elias: his firm chest, the spotless sole of his leather shoes pressing down just-so against Tim’s neck, the loosening of one of his ostentatious silk neckties… 

His hand moves faster, more frantically. _Stop_ , he tells himself. _You don’t want this_ . A moan escapes from his lips and he curses: _Fuck. No._

There’s a prickle at the back of his neck. 

_Good, Tim_ . It’s almost like a memory. Almost like his mind is recalling what Elias whispered to him in his dream, moments ago, but it’s too loud, too insistent, too present, and he recoils. He’s aware, too much so, of the windows, the curtains only half-drawn, and the mirror across from his bed where he knows he’d see his reflection if he dared look. He doesn’t. The voice cuts through his thoughts again and this time it isn’t a memory. It’s brand new. _I don’t want to hurt you, Tim. I’m trying to help you. Can you believe that?_

“No.” The word comes out through teeth gritted against the fast-mounting pleasure that’s overtaking him, pushing him ever-closer to an orgasm he’s dreading and anticipating. “Get out. Of. My. Head.” 

_Go on, Tim. Faster. That feels good, doesn’t it?_

It’s as though he can’t help but obey. It does feel good. It's enticing, like a hit from a drug he knows he should avoid, and all his resistance, all the parts of his body and his mind screaming at him to stop only make him more desperate as he chases the orgasm that he knows is building. As he finishes, he groans, “Elias,” and the voice in his mind replies, _Good._

He’s disgusted with himself as he hoists himself from the bed, stumbles into the shower, washes the evidence from his hand and inner thighs. His stomach churns, but the images of the dream and what came after don’t leave his mind, flashing back as he pours his coffee, grabs a protein bar he knows he’s unlikely to eat from the pantry, laces his Converse. The whole tube into Chelsea he’s paranoid, the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up as he looks over his shoulder for somebody following him, somebody watching him, any evidence that the throngs of anonymous faces commuting into Central London can see the shame written across his features. _They know_. He wants to skip work. He almost does, almost turns in to a small brunch place half a block from the Institute, but though he wants to, even imagines the way he’ll order his eggs, he finds himself continuing the walk. The pavement is relentless, hard and cruel under his feet. As he opens the front doors he notices how tired he is, as though he didn’t sleep at all. His body sore, heavy; he checks his watch and a jolt of terror runs through him at a raw, red spot on the inside of his wrist, the width of a rope he remembers in vivid, horrific detail. 

Before he has time to do more than think _fuck this_ and turn around, he hears a voice from across the lobby. 

“Tim.” Elias speaks brightly, like he’s been awake for hours and is already more caffeinated than he ought to be. Against his better judgement, Tim looks up. When their eyes meet, he _knows_ , with a cold, writhing dread. 

_There’s no getting out for you, is there?_ He grips the travel mug he brings to the office more tightly, the heat scalding against his cold, slick palm, and says nothing. 

“You’re early,” Elias continues. “Why don’t you come up to my office? I’ve been wanting to see you.”


End file.
